Man not watching The Traitors unable to understand society

A MAN who is not watching The Traitors is completely unable to understand his friends, colleagues and the world around him, it has emerged.

Nathan Muir is not currently glued to the BBC’s hit reality show, leaving him blindly stumbling through life like a second-class citizen excluded from normal, decent, Traitors-watching society.

He said: “I thought it was bad enough when I didn’t watch Normal People. But this is at least a million times worse.

“It’s the first thing my wife wants to talk about when we wake up, then when I get to work it’s all Faithfuls this and murder that. They’re all speaking in English, but their words sound like gibberish to me.

“Even something as familiar and reassuring as Claudia Winkleman and her flawless fringe now seem disturbing and alien. Have I stumbled into an actual uncanny valley? Will I ever have a meaningful interaction with another person ever again?

“Maybe I should cave to pressure and catch up on iPlayer. Then perhaps I’ll be able to make sense of this castle full of Dementors and understand why some guy called Paul is an absolute twat.”

Friend Nikki Hollis said: “If Nathan starts watching I’m switching off. Seeing people who don’t watch it slowly losing their sanity as they turn into social pariahs is the best part of the show.”

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How I'm feeding the kids while Kate's in hospital, by the Prince of Wales

WHILE the wife’s away, I have absolutely no idea how to feed the children. No matter how many times I say ‘Mummy will be back soon’ the little beasts keep demanding food.

I can’t ask the servants to do it, because I’m a modern future king who can do normal things and they’re nasty little gossips who’ll be straight onto the Mail. So this is how I’ve done it:

Tuesday lunch

Kate admitted to hospital. We’re saying it’s abdominal surgery. I assume it’s a six-pack transplant, I haven’t asked. I bung two pizzas in the oven, I’m not a complete amateur, and serve them on the cardboard plates helpfully provided in the box.

Tuesday dinner

Officially out of ideas. Call Kate but she’s ‘recovering from surgery’. Explain I’m heir to the throne. Still no. Ask the kids how they feel about pizza again and they’re fine with it. This is a doddle.

Wednesday lunch

There’s no pizza. Call Kate. Still recovering, though I notice she’s not too weak to imply I’m selfish. Call Anne, she’s practical, and get both barrels about how she’s ‘the only working Royal’ and I’m ‘a useless prick like my father’. Tell the kids they can have cereal as a treat.

Wednesday dinner

This is a f**king nightmare. George wants a burger, Charlotte wants ‘scrambly egg’, Louis wants sweets. The Queen calls, though she’s not my real Queen, and suggests I ‘do oven chips and nuggets’. ‘They’re bloody frozen!’ I scream. Apparently the oven fixes that.

Thursday lunch

Charlotte makes her own scrambled egg and cries when it’s ruined. George chanting ‘burger’ again and again. In desperation I copy something Ollie did once at uni and heat up tubs of something called beans and serve them with toast, which is scorched bread.

Thursday dinner

There’s nothing in the cupboards. There’s nothing in the freezer. Desperate, I scatter a family bag of crisps on the floor while the children snap at my outstretched hands.

Friday lunch

Absolute bloody brainwave. There is a place where Royals can eat and no one, not the public or the staff or the paparazzi, will ever notice. A short drive and I’m ushering the children into a safe space to fill our hungry bellies. Welcome to Pizza Express in Woking.